This is a post in the Thanks-Living series on Mr. Thomas and Me. It is a part of Chasing Happy's #thankfulproject. Should you care to join, you can find the prompts here.
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You fell short of the superman I knew you were. And, some days, I'm in shambles over the reality of that. You were the first man I truly loved who truly loved me back. And the first man who taught me the depths of a truly broken heart. Some days, it feels like a brokenness that can't be repaired. You taught me how to do business, learn business, and be business, then you were gone from the office before I could show you I learned it.
Dad, I'm disappointed in you. Because, you're human. And I wanted you to be more -so much more- than that. I needed you.
When we sat curled in balls on the living room floor the morning of the diagnosis, you said, "I can't believe I've done this to you and your siblings and your mom. You don't deserve this." I told you it wasn't your fault. But now, I get it.
You weren't referencing the disease. You were disappointed too. You couldn't believe this disease wasn't beatable, because you'd conquered everything else in life. I share that heart Dad. I'm disappointed too.
But, Dad, you did one thing right. You pointed me in the direction of what I needed -deeply, unabashedly, terribly needed- in order to survive the disappointment. You told me, I needed Him because everyone and everything else would fail me. And I told you, "no." I told you, "that isn't so, Dad because there's you." You did like you always did, raised your brow, shook your head, and laughed a bit under your breath. You did that right, Dad.
I was stubborn and scared and short-sighted. Because disappointment abounds -everyone has and everyone will. Because everything isn't actually anything. And, Dad, you were right. I need Him in such an intense and powerful way there aren't enough words to evoke the feeling.
So Dad, thanks for falling short. I wouldn't have learned the lesson otherwise. And, Dad, as much as this wasn't how Superman looked, you're still a superhero to one little girl who, despite growing up, loves you infinitely.